Poetry

I see a small shack
with pumpkins and rock
on the tinplate roof
to keep it in place.
 
There’s fog hanging over the marsh
and the croaking of frogs
comes forth like a choir.
 
I smell rain
that suddenly is falling on the outside
and the smell rises from the red brown dust,
and I see thunderbolts
drawing blue lines
and I am well sheltered
against wind and rain
 
and around me
the maize fields are green
and I have found my own little Eden.